Young Soldiers, Old Souls
by 0Shadow Panther0
Summary: Gen. Tracer and Reaper, Lena and Gabriel. A dichotomy of Overwatch- one a bright, young heroine with faith in the future, the other a tired soldier whose life's work remains in the shadows. Or- Reaper is finally captured, and Tracer wants to talk.


When Reaper comes to, he's sitting on a cot in a cell. There's a cold, heavy weight around his throat, his trench coat is torn to shreds, and he feels like total shit.

The obnoxiously high pitched voice ringing in his ears isn't exactly helping either.

"Hullo, love!" Tracer chirps. She's standing outside, casually leaning against the bars. "Up already?"

Reaper snarls and attempts to flicker into his wraith form-

-and finds that he can't.

"Don't bother tryin' any of that ghostie stuff," the Overwatch agent continues, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Winston's a lot smarter than he looks, you know? Whipped up that collar so you couldn't escape."

"Why am I here," Reaper growls.

"Dontcha remember? We captured you," Tracer chirps.

"I know _that_ ," he spits. "Why am I here and not dead?"

"Ah," she says. "Well, you can't really die, and we all sorta figured that out the last few times we shot you and you just turned to dust and showed up later, so we just picked you up."

Beneath his mask, Reaper's lips curl into a sardonic smile. "Can't imagine that Morrison is too happy about that."

"Oh no," Tracer chirrups, far too cheerful for someone dealing with their organization's worst enemy, "Jack's spittin' mad. Took Winston _and_ Zarya to hold him back and stop him from going at you."

Zarya, he remembers vaguely, is the Russian woman with arms of steel and looks like she could bench press Reinhart in full armor without breaking a sweat.

"So why are you here?" he asks warily.

"Just wanted to greet the company," she grins. "Cheerio, love!"

And with that, Tracer blinks out of existence.

Mildly nonplussed, Reaper settles against the wall of the cell and waits.

* * *

Tracer stops by again soon after her first visit.

She looks as cheerful as ever, all bright smiles and warm laughter.

"Something amusing?" Reaper asks, unamused.

Tracer snickers. "It seems that you've been behaving awfully well," she comments. "The guards told me that you haven't been givin' them any trouble at all."

He shrugs noncommittally in reply. "Not much I can do," he says, more than a little bitter.

Tracer makes a small noise of acknowledge in reply, sizing him up him with an indecipherable gleam in her eyes.

"Unfortunately, that's all the time I can spare for you today," she says, and the disappointment that flashes across her face looks genuine. "I'll drop by later though. Don't get too lonely, love!"

And then she's gone.

Reaper rolls his eyes and goes back to doing nothing.

* * *

The pattern repeats itself many times over the next few weeks. Every now and then, Tracer pops by and chats for a few minutes before blinking away. It's a not-so-welcome break from the monotony of sleep and eating. Sometimes, he exercises, but there's only so much he can do in the ten-by-ten of his cell.

Tracer catches him doing pushups next to his cot.

Apparently, air conditioning in the holding cells isn't a priority for Overwatch, and the heat is sweltering. He has long since discarded the remains of his coat and shirt, and he's sweating profusely as he works, the patches of discolored skin along his arms and back displayed for all to see.

For once, Tracer doesn't speak as soon as she sees him, quietly studying him.

Reaper barely acknowledges her presence, concentrating solely on his breathing and the rolling muscles beneath his skin, the smooth, regular rise and fall of his body.

"Can I ask you a question?" she asks suddenly, after several minutes of silence..

"If I say no," he says dryly, "will you leave me alone?"

Tracer looks surprised for a second before she breaks into bubbly laughter. Beneath his mask, Reaper raises an eyebrow.

Her snickers trail off after a few moments. "So," she asks again, "may I?"

Reaper shrugs with one shoulder, pointedly not looking up at her.

He waits for her to ask about the blotches of white scattered across his dark skin, waits for her to ask why he doesn't take his mask off, waits for her to ask about why he can't die.

"How old are you?" she asks instead.

Her question startles him enough that he actually pauses in his push ups, looking up to meet her eyes. He's grateful for the mask that hides the expression of surprise on his face.

She waits patiently, expectantly, for his answer.

"...Fifty-three," he says finally, and returns to his push ups.

Tracer hums thoughtfully. "You're rather spry for an older gent," she replies.

Reaper bristles at the comment. Sure he's past his prime, but one on one, without any fancy gadgets or weapons, he's sure he can take any of the Overwatch agents in hand to hand combat-

-with the exception of the monkey, maybe. Super soldier program was good for something, at least.

When it seems like Tracer's waiting for a reply, he lets out a soft huff. She seems to take it as a proper response and continues.

"So," she says, a familiar gleam in her eyes, "how'd you like to get out of that cell for a little bit?"

For the second time, Reaper pauses in his push ups. Tracer is full of surprises today.

Giving up on his exercise, he settles against the wall. "What do you mean?" Despite himself, his curiosity is getting the best of him. The small, cramped cell is suffocating and restricting, and he would welcome any break from the damned place.

"If I pull some strings," she starts, "I could probably convince Winston to let you out for a bit, use the training room to spar and the like." She winks. "Of course, there's a catch."

Reaper scowls. "What is it?"

"You'll be sparrin' with me." Tracer smiles, bright and genuine, and he is startled by her sincerity. "So," she continues, "how about it?"

He sighs. It's not like there's anything better to do.

* * *

A few days later, Tracer has worked her magic and Reaper is let out of his cell. The training room is empty, but he can see a the silhouettes staring him down from the observation deck.

Tracer bounces on the balls of her feet, stretching as she preps for the match. She has traded her orange suit for a black tank top and athletic shorts. Her hands and feet are tightly wrapped with boxing gauze, and she flexes her hand frequently, as if not used to the sensation. Her signature harness is still strapped around her chest.

Reaper himself is wearing a pair of prison-orange pants and a white shirt that feels a bit too small and tends to ride up over his stomach if he reaches above his head. His old outfit (or his "ridiculous, flamboyant, extraordinary edgy costume," as Tracer had once affectionately referred to it) had been taken away, probably to be incinerated, soon after Tracer suggestion of a spar. Thankfully, he had been allowed to keep his mask, although it looks rather awkward without his hood. In fact, the whole outfit isn't very flattering at all.

"How about we make this a tad more interesting?" she asks.

Reaper feels vaguely like an underpaid babysitter watching over an overly energetic child. "How?"

"If you land a hit, I'll answer a question for you," she says. A brief silence. "So long as it's not confidential info about Overwatch," she adds as an afterthought.

"Fine."

Tracer fist pumps and sets off running laps around the room to warm up. Reaper rolls his eyes and follows suit.

She doesn't know what she's getting herself into.

Reaper doesn't know what he's gotten into.

Tracer dances out of the way of a sharp jab to the stomach, twisting to the side and using her momentum to snap a kick to his ribs.

He crosses his arms and blocks, catching her follow up kick, but snarls as she slips her leg out of his grip.

It's been a solid twenty minutes and he hasn't managed to land a single hit on her.

She moves like a hummingbird, light and quick, never stopping as she darts away from his punches and whirls away from his kicks.

She's _fast_ , and Reaper is actually surprised that he's ever managed to land a hit on her when she's actually _using_ her chronal accelerator.

He growls in frustration and launches a roundhouse directly at Tracer's chest, and she leaps back quickly. As she lands, her balance wobbles slightly, and Reaper takes the opportunity to tackle her to the ground. She lets out a surprised " _Oof!_ " as she hits the ground, eyes wide and startled.

She yelps as he rolls her over and pins her wrists to her back, a leg pressed to the backs of her knees with enough pressure that it's probably uncomfortable.

"Well," Tracer says, the brightness in her voice sounding a bit strained, "you caught me."

His breath exhales in a sharp huff and he rolls off of her, springing to his feet, muscles tenser than a coiled spring.

Tracer hops up, brushing imaginary dust off her clothes. She looks up at him and frowns, brow furrowing.

"Now then," she comments, "shall we continue?"

The former Blackwatch agent nods stiffly, and the two square off once again.

By the time an hour passes, Reaper has only managed to land three more hits. He's careful not to send her into the ground again, and the matches pass without further incident. (Internally, he's brimming his frustration. It's rather embarrassing that he can barely land four hits on her when she's not even using her abilities.)

At the end, he's breathing heavily, and he's exhausted and satisfied all at once.

Reaper settles himself on one of the benches that are lined up along the walls. Tracer plops down next to him, and he notices, with a hint of irritation, that the only sign of her previous exertion is the faint flush across her cheeks and the slight elevation of her breathing.

She hands him a ice cold water bottle with a winning smile and tosses a damp towel over his head when she thinks his attention is somewhere else. He snatches it out of the air single handedly, without looking, and lays it across his broad shoulders. Tracer huffs in disappointment.

"So how about those questions?" she says cheerfully.

He reaches behind his neck to wipe off the sweat that has accumulated there and suddenly extremely aware of the weight of the collar around his nape.

"How does the collar work?" Reaper asks.

Tracer pauses thoughtfully. "I'm not Winston, so I'm not really sure," she ponders, "but I think it works a bit like my accelerator."

Reaper lean forward slightly as she speaks, interest piqued.

"My accelerator keeps me whole, stops me from slipping into the timestream," Tracer says. "Yours keeps you together and stops you from scatterin' and flyin' off, or whatever it is that you do."

Reaper mind is working at a million miles an hour. The collar stops his body from dispersing, from regenerating from the ashes. Would that mean...

"If you try to kill me with this collar on, will I stay dead?"

Tracer goes very, very still. "Why?"

"Answer the question," he presses.

There's a long pause, and Reaper almost thinks that Tracer won't answer until she very quietly says, "Yes." It's barely a whisper, barely more than a breath, but it's there.

Reaper thinks about this for several moments. "When I first came here," he starts, "you said that the only reason why I was still alive was the fact that that you _couldn't_ kill me." He turns towards her fully, his dark, piercing gaze boring into her eyes. "Why am I here?"

Tracer stares at the ground. "...It's not my place to say," she murmurs.

"Too confidential?" he asks dryly.

Tracer shakes her head, but her gaze doesn't leave the ground. "It was Jack's decision."

Reaper freezes. "What?"

She freezes. Bites her lip. "I think I've already said too much."

She begins to stand, but Reaper catches her wrist in his large, calloused hand."That was three questions," he says. "I have one more."

Tracer sits back down slowly.

Reaper loses himself in a thought and Tracer is unnaturally silent.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks finally.

Tracer flinches at his voice, as if startled. "Huh?"

"Why do you do all of... this?" Reaper gestures at the training room and at himself.

Tracer's eyes are wide, and she glances at him, but quickly averts her gaze. Suddenly, she's not Tracer anymore, she's Lena Oxton, bright and hopeful and _terrified._ Terrified of disappearing, of being alone, of leaving her loved ones behind. Lena Oxton is such a distant memory in his mind, as different from Tracer as Reaper is from Gabriel.

"I didn't know why you were so angry," she admits. "I thought that... after everything, I could... I dunno. I thought could help you."

He laughs humorlessly. "Help me? Help the rage that's been boiling inside of me for the last decade? Help this curse that's kept me alive? Help the monster that Talon created?"

Lena's hand tightens around his and he realizes that he hasn't let go.

"Yes," she says, so earnestly that almost regrets his harsh words.

He suddenly feels very tired.

Reaper sighs and lean back, resting his head against the wall. With the hand not holding Lena's, he reaches up and removes his mask, feels the pitted skin and the ugly, pale swathes of scars and the screaming pain of his broken nerves.

"Still think you can help me?" he asks. There is no venom in his words, only a deep seated exhaustion.

Lena turns to him. There is no pity in her bright eyes, only warmth and overwhelming determination. Slowly, gently, she lifts a hand to his cheek, cupping it with unbelievable tenderness.

"Yes."

* * *

Reyes goes back to his cell and doesn't see anyone for at least a week. It's hard to keep track of time when the only thing breaking up the monotony is the arrival of his meals.

He sets his mask aside. It lays on the tiny, cramped table that's shoved against the wall. There is no place for Reaper here.

Not anymore.

He hears footsteps echoing down the hallway and he sits up a little straighter on the edge of his cot, expecting Tracer- no _Lena_ \- to appear, but something makes him hesitate. The footsteps are too heavy, too deliberate to be Lena. They sound like a soldier's march, and Reyes knows _exactly_ who has come to visit.

John Morrison stares him down through the bars of his cell.

"Reyes," Morrison says tensely.

Reyes meets his gaze steadily. "John," he says quietly. He doesn't miss the way Morrison stiffens, the way his jaw clenches and his hands ball up into fists.

Reyes doesn't remember the last time he called John by his first name, and he's sure it's been even longer since he's called him Jack.

The familiar visor of Soldier 76 is gone, and Reyes wants to laugh at the irony. The two of them had long since discarded their histories, their humanities, and put on a mask.

And now the masks are off.

They are no longer Soldier 76 and Reaper; they're just John Morrison and Gabriel Reyes.

They're just two tired old men who can't seem to die.

"Long time no see," Reyes rasps out. There's something indecipherable in his old friend's eyes, something that should have been long-since buried.

"Save it," Morrison bites out. His lips are curled into a dark snarl, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed.

Reyes lets out a soft huff of dry, humorless laughter and leans back against the wall. "So, Morrison, I doubt you're here for a friendly check up. What brings you to this side of town?" He laughs again at his little joke.

"What have you been telling Tracer?"

Reyes blinks, startled. "What?"

Morrison grits his teeth. "Did you tell Tracer about... us?"

Reyes huffs. "Lena was part of Overwatch. She knows enough."

"It's _Tracer_ to you," Morrison says harshly, "And she knows some of it, but not all." He pauses. "She doesn't know _why_." A tired sigh. "She thinks Talon made you do it, like they did with Amelie."

Reyes twitches and bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile. "It wouldn't be the first time she's overestimated my better nature," he says, a little bitterly.

There's a low rumble that sounds from Jack that could've been a laugh or an irritated growl.

They don't say anything after that. Morrison watches and Gabriel lazes about for a few minutes more before turning heel to leave.

"Morrison," Gabriel calls to his back. John pauses. "Lena... Where is she?"

John turns and glances at Gabriel. His brow is furrowed, a slight twist to his mouth.

"She's on a mission in Siberia," John says. "She should be back within two days."

Morrison frowns a bit, as if wondering why he bothered to tell Reyes any information at all, but, suddenly, he's startled by the flood of emotions than cascade through Reyes' face, filled with relief and concern and-

"Why haven't you killed me yet?"

John freezes.

Then, stiffly, he turns and walks away.

This time, he doesn't turn back.

For Gabriel, the silence is answer enough.

' _I don't know._ '

* * *

A week comes and goes, but there is no sign of Lena.

His initial relief that she is, in fact, _not_ avoiding him quickly morphs into a greater concern.

Jack's blatant nervousness isn't helping either.

Gabriel can hear the steady thuds of the soldier's pacing in the halls just outside. (He's heard those footsteps so many times, _ran_ from them, that they're impossible to mistake for anyone else.) Morrison had always paced when he was anxious, even back in their Overwatch days.

Gabriel is lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling when Jack storms in.

He jerks up, brow furrowed.

"Tracer's back," Morrison says briskly. "She's asking for you."

He unlocks the cell door, and Gabriel cautiously rises.

John marches him out of the room and Gabriel makes it a point to slouch as he walks, seemingly unaffected by the former's nervous, brittle energy.

He is absolutely affected.

Tracer had become an odd, energetic constant. Familiar.

He hates it and cherishes it in equal parts. She's a tiny scrap of what he once had- optimism and hope and faith in the world, something he once held so dear but now seems entire universes away.

He's changed, he thinks absently, eyeing the stiff lines of Morrison's back. They all have, if only a little.

John leads him to the infirmary, gaze knife-edge sharp as he opens the door.

Gabriel walks through and the door shuts behind him with a resounding _clang_.

The med-bay is crisp and sterile, rows of cots lined up neatly. All of them are empty save one.

Lena looks stark against the prevalence of white, her dark hair a shock of color as she sits up and leans against the wall. Her usual bright uniform has been long since discarded, and the cotton hospital shift she wears in its place somehow looks wrong.

The swathes of gauze that starts at her neck and disappear under her shift seem insignificant compared to the dark, ugly shadows that bloom under her eyes like bruises, the redness of her eyes.

She's been crying.

"How'd you do it?" she asks quietly.

Reyes takes a few steps closer and eases himself into the chair at her bedside.

"How'd you... stop hurting? When you made the choices that you did?" She's staring at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.

He mulls over the question. Thinks about Morrison- _Jack_ , he used to call him- thinks about McCree, the little brat, thinks about Angela and Ana and poor little Amelie Lacroix, who doesn't even remember who she used to be and maybe doesn't care anymore.

Thinks about Lena Oxton, bright and optimistic and so vibrantly full of life that it hurts to look at her sometimes, who hangs around bitter old men and tries to put together broken women because she cares, and cries when things don't go right.

"I didn't," he says finally.

She sniffles and rubs her eyes roughly, and then gives up and buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

"I miss how things used to be," she mumbles, half muffled.

He was happy, once. They all were.

"So do I."


End file.
